The top letter in the S pigeonhole changed his mind. The handwriting was unmistakable. He compared it carefully with Fallowfield’s letter, checking and rechecking. There was no doubt. This was it.
It was addressed to Henry Saltecombe.
Dalziel stood for a moment, uncertain now what to do.
The proper course was to contact Saltecombe and ask him to open the letter in his presence. It was his letter after all. It was only theory that it had any importance whatsoever to the police.
On the other hand it might be of vital importance.
Still uncertain, Dalziel bent forward to replace the other letters. And the blow aimed at his skull crashed with great violence on to the bunched muscles of his powerful shoulders just below his neck. He pitched forward, his mind registering with horror the feel of a thin but rapid flow of dampness running over his head, around his ear, finally dripping to the carpet from his brow.
Pascoe slowed to fifty to turn into the college gates. Why he had driven so fast he did not know. But once out of the town streets he had put his foot on the accelerator and kept it there. Now as he slackened speed still more to navigate the sweeping bend in the college driveway, he felt his whole body relax comfortably, in an almost postcoital Languor.
New kicks for jaded appetites, he thought. Only his appetite wasn’t at all jaded. He wondered whether Ellie would still be available after this morning’s row. He doubted it. Which was a pity. Still there must be any amount of enthusiastic crumpet available in a place like this for the true believer.
But Dalziel first, not the most aphrodisiac of thoughts.
The study was empty. He went outside again and glanced up towards the SCR block. A dim light glowed in one of the upstairs windows. Perhaps the fat man was still up there. Perhaps he had found something.
He went through the main entrance, pushing the heavy door to behind him.
It crashed shut as he began to climb the stairs. The noise reverberated up the stair-well for a moment. He stood and looked up the uninviting flights of stairs.
“Are you up there, sir?’ he called.
The answer came as though cued on a television thriller.
A woman’s scream.
Pascoe set off up the stairs three at a time. Each landing had a corridor leading off it, a grey tube leading to an identical landing at the other end and another flight of stairs. On the second landing, Pascoe caught a brief glimpse of movement at the other end of the corridor. He paused for a moment. Distantly he heard footsteps, pattering desperately down the stairs. He was undecided whether to pursue or go on up.
“Oh help, please help!’ It was the woman’s voice again. That decided him. Up to the next floor, down the corridor a little way, through the open door which let a feeble rectangle of light fall out of it.
The first thing that struck him was the smell. It was like the aftermath of a distillers’ orgy. The place reeked of whisky.
Squatting on the floor looking desperately up at him was Marion Cargo.
And in her lap she cradled Dalziel’s head.
“Thank God!’ said Marion. ‘ me please. We must get a doctor.”
Pascoe knelt beside her and took Dalziel’s weight. He seemed to be the main source of the whisky fumes, his shoulders were soaked and the floor was strewn with broken glass.
“Sir!’ he said anxiously. ‘!”
Dalziel opened his eyes and groaned. The groan turned into a sniff. He put a hand up to his face, looked at it, then licked his fingers.
“Oh my God,’ he said weakly. ‘ thought it was blood.”
He tried to stagger to his feet and Pascoe pushed him without much resistance into a chair. He leaned back, then yelped with pain and bent forward again.
“The bastard!’ he said. ‘, the bastard. He’s broken my whisky.”
“Does it hurt much?’ asked Pascoe anxiously.
“Aye, man. Mentally and physically. The letter, has he got the letter?”
“Where? You found it then?”
“On top of the pigeonholes there.”
The letter was gone.
Pascoe turned to Marion.
“What happened?’ he snapped.
“I don’t know. I came across to get a briefcase I’d left in here on Friday. The place was locked before because of the trouble last night I think. But I heard Mr. Dalziel say he was coming up.”
“You heard”? When? Where?”
“Why, in the bar a few moments ago.”
“Anybody else there?”
“Nearly everybody,’ she said, puzzled. ‘, I finished my drink, came out, saw the light so thought I’d just pop up.”
“Did you see anybody else come in?”
“No. But when I got to the landing of this floor, I heard a crash from inside the common room and as I reached the door, someone came running out and knocked me down.”
She rubbed her left buttock expressively.
“And then?”
“I screamed. Then I came in here and found the superintendent. Next thing I heard you running up the stairs so I shouted for help. Don’t you think we should get a doctor?”
“Yes. We will. Look, did you see who it was?”
“No. I’m afraid not. It all happened so quickly and I was dazed for a minute. Mind you,’ she added slowly, ‘ was something familiar about him. I’m sure it was someone I know.”
“Roote,’ said Dalziel, groaning as he tried to straighten up.
“What? Are you sure?’ said Pascoe.
“It has to be. Anyway I saw his shoes, those fancy tennis shoes he wears. Between my bloody legs I saw them.”
“Are you sure?’ repeated Pascoe. Marion looked amazed.
“For Christ’s sake, go and get him!”
“Yes, but you… “
“We need that letter. We’ve bugger all else. Go and get him!’ snarled Dalziel. His face was recovering a bit of colour, though it still looked grey. ”ll be able to smell him. Glen Grant. My God!”
“Miss. Cargo, get on the telephone will you?’ began Pascoe.
“Go!’ screamed the fat man.
Pascoe went. Dalziel was right, of course. Speed was of the essence. The letter itself would only take a minute to dispose of. He had little hope there. But at least if they got Roote straightaway they’d be able to check for certain if he was the attacker. He could hardly have avoided whisky stains and minute fragments of glass getting on to his clothes.
But the man was no fool. He would realize this too. His mind worked fast and it was matched with ice-cold nerves. He must have overheard Dalziel talking in the bar, had the same flash of realization that he, Pascoe, had had an hour earlier and instantly set out to thwart the fat man. He probably stood at the SCR door, absolutely still, watching the search, content to fade away quietly if nothing turned up, but moving instantly Dalziel’s demeanour revealed he had found something. Into the room, picking up the bottle of scotch on the way, bring it down club-like on to the detective’s back, then away with the letter. Perhaps he had meant to do more. The bottle had shattered on the superintendent’s shoulders. If it had caught him on the head… Perhaps Marion Cargo’s arrival had stopped another killing.
With this thought in mind, he went into Franny’s room in the best film-detective fashion, fast and low, crouched ready to ward off attack.
The place was empty, but bore the signs of a recent and hurried visit.
The wardrobe door was ajar, a couple of drawers in the chest were pulled out. Pascoe looked around longingly. It might be well worthwhile searching the place.
But not now. If he read the signs aright, Roote had been as quick as he suspected, and realizing that his clothes were a possible giveaway, had got back quickly for a change, but was too clever to do it here. Where then? Someone else’s room? Possibly.
Pascoe ran lightly down the corridor, pushing open doors. Most of the rooms were empty. In one an unfamiliar youth was leaning out of his open window smoking a pipe which was far too old for his placid, child-like face. He looked round in surprise.